


Perfect Nonsense

by qaftsiel



Series: Infinitely Stranger 'verse [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Bean Sidhe, Dragons, Gen, Humor, Kelpies, Multi, Pixies, Series 3 Noncompliant, Shapeshifters - Freeform, Sphinx!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-09
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-04 02:48:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1075636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qaftsiel/pseuds/qaftsiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Work often ventured into the realm of the improbable, but now that Sherlock and John are privy to an entire world of the supernatural thanks to one Mary Morstan, the improbable may well start to look rather mundane in comparison.</p>
<p>Takes place after Infinitely Stranger. No particular plot-- just a collection of short stories!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fairy Struck

**Author's Note:**

> Reading Infinitely Stranger would definitely help give some background to this, but you should get along fine knowing that John and Mary are sphinxes, Sherlock's a fae shapeshifter, and Mary's the one who introduced them to the supernatural world during a previous adventure.
> 
> The title is from Nikolai Gogol's 'The Nose': "Perfect nonsense goes on in the world. Sometimes there is no plausibility at all."
> 
> Aurilia, this one's for you. :)

          “Explain this to me,” Mary says to Molly once Sherlock and John have ducked out to argue with Lestrade on speakerphone in the stairwell.

 

           Molly looks startled at first, but quickly recovers and flutters over to Mary’s side of the autopsy table.  “From what I can tell, he died because something blocked off his carotid artery,” she says, pointing out the carefully dissected section of the cadaver’s throat. “Thing is, there’s nowhere near enough plaque. I’ve done ultrasound, I did a bit of exploratory work to see if perhaps it’d broken up and travelled further up the artery, but... he was in excellent health. Low cholesterol, fit, no family history of heart disease, and what little plaque I could find was stable.”

 

          Mary takes a moment to mull that over. “So... something that isn’t blood pressure would have had to disturb it somehow to make it problematic?”

 

          "Basically, yes,” Molly agrees, “though that’s impossible.”

 

           Not quite, Mary thinks—there are plenty of ways to dislodge something in a sealed space if you’re a clever enough mage—but she lets that slide. Explaining magic to unexposed humans is difficult at best; explaining it to unexposed humans in the hard sciences is even worse. Fetching a pair of gloves from a box on the other side of the morgue, Mary returns and peers into the opened-up section of the body’s neck. “Could someone... I don’t know, squeeze it shut by pinching it?”

 

           That gives Molly a bit of pause, but she shakes her head ‘no’ after just a moment. “It’s possible, but it would cause extensive bruising. Impossible to miss that kind of bruise, really, since it’d take a powerful grip and a bit of time to do it.”

 

            Swallowing down her unease, Mary gently reaches out and prods at the dissected region, moving layers this way and that. Under her breath, she silently mouths the words to a simple _seeing_ spell, just enough to tell her if magical energy had been expended anywhere near the victim’s throat.

 

            Mary’s gleeful exclamation coincides with Sherlock striding back into the morgue, John close behind. “Sherlock, I know how he died.”

 

            Sherlock beams and sweeps over. “Oh?” he queries. Molly’s baffled noise goes unnoticed.

 

            Redirecting the _seeing_ takes but a moment. “See that?” Mary says.

 

            “Oh,” Sherlock breathes. Mary has channelled _seeing_ spells through him often enough that he knows exactly what it is he’s looking at and what it implies. “Oh, that is _clever_.” Mary and John both know exactly what to expect from that tone—when Sherlock bolts from the morgue, they’re hot on his heels.

 

            After consulting his notes and a few testimonials from friends and instructors of the dead man—Jay Konchady, business doctoral student at the University of London, played on an intramural rugby team, rowdy when drinking—Sherlock determines that their suspect is a former member of Konchady’s team, recently removed for belligerent conduct toward his teammates and unsavoury behaviour around women. A few more interviews place the ex-teammate at his usual haunt, a small but popular pub not far from campus.

 

            “Jesus, Sherlock, he’s a fucking _bear_ ,” John hisses as they watch Smith through the windows of the pub from across the street.

 

            Smith is rather large, Sherlock thinks. At a distance it’s difficult to estimate, but he suspects Smith is very close to two metres tall and almost certainly masses more than one hundred and thirty kilograms. He’s half-slouched over the bar, sitting so he’s facing a woman buying drinks; he appears to be making unsuccessful overtures toward her. When she stalks away with her pint, he rolls his eyes and tugs at his thick, black beard. When he picks it up, his pint glass looks more like a shot in his... slabs? Paws? Sherlock can’t honestly say he’d qualify something that enormous as a human hand. Still, size does have its disadvantages.  “His stature should work against him if we can induce a chase.”

 

            “John and I won’t have any trouble taking him down,” Mary agrees, “but I’m not sure how we’re supposed to restrain someone like that. Will cuffs even fit on him?”

 

            Sherlock nods slowly. “I believe so.”

 

            “We’ll need a plan,” says John. “I can take him down and subdue him for a bit, but I need one of you there with cuffs or zip ties as soon as possible.”

 

            Sherlock nods, this time more confidently. “Follow me. I know just the place for an ambush. No CCTV angles, either—you won’t need to play nice.”

 

            “Oooh,” John and Mary say in unison.

 

            ***

 

            Sherlock tears around the corner of the alley. He had _not_ counted on Smith being so bloody fast—one hundred and thirty kilograms should be categorically incapable of catching Sherlock up, yet Smith is close enough that Sherlock’s coat is in serious danger of being grabbed and yanked.

 

            An oatmeal blur bursts up from one side of the alley; Smith yelps and swears behind Sherlock before a loud _BANG_ announces his introduction to the side of a metal bin. Sherlock halts and turns just in time to watch John lift Smith bodily and slam him into the ground before pinning his arms behind his back.

 

            Sherlock has the latest pair of nicked handcuffs ready as he jogs up to where John has the massive man pinned. “Robert Smith,” Sherlock announces after cuffing the man and pulling his wallet from his back pocket. “Former teammate of Jay Konchady.”

 

            “Fuck you! Shoulda known a little shit like you were a fuckin cop!” Smith squawks.

 

            Sherlock’s brow furrows and John nearly starts laughing out loud—neither of them could possibly have expected such an absurdly large, hirsute man to have a voice that’s like a cross between a small, ill-tempered parrot and a spotty pre-teen. Their efforts to control themselves fail when their gazes meet; John bursts into high-pitched giggles and Sherlock’s low chuckle echoes off the alley walls.

 

            “Oh, so you lot’ll be doing it too, then, will you?” Smith snarls (well, snarls in a sense, if ‘yowling like an angry housecat’ can be called snarling). “Konchady’s a prick; whatever ‘e got, ‘e deserved. Real men don’t sit about takin the piss over a bloke’s voice like fuckin eight-year-olds!”

 

            Mastering himself, Sherlock queries, “I take it real men make use of cinching spells to take care of mundane annoyances, then?”

 

            Smith mutters something under his breath. Sherlock doesn’t catch it, but John’s giggles stop and he leaps away as if burnt. “Shit!” he hisses, and suddenly Smith isn’t there—there’s just a set of empty clothing. Something about the size of a brilliantly-cobalt, buzzing shuttlecock careens through the air in dizzy spirals, squawking out the words to a fireball spell.

 

            John lashes out at the thing with one clawed hand. It dodges, but its concentration wavers enough that it stutters over a phrase and the spell fizzles with a puff of malodorous yellow smoke. Cursing, the thing zips past Sherlock for the mouth of the alley—Sherlock grabs for it, but it’s too agile and darts out of the way.

 

            The thing is just about to the end of the alley when Mary turns the corner and plucks it from the air with a movement so blindingly quick Sherlock doesn’t quite catch the whole motion.

 

            “I thought so,” Mary sniffs as she holds the creature up. She gives it a good shake when it starts to try and cast another fireball. “Don’t even think about it—those two might hesitate, but I’m not above taking a leg or three if you cause too much trouble.” She turns it so it gets a good, long look at the pearly white fangs and predator’s incisors she’s baring in a hungry facsimile of a smile.

 

            The thing stops its thrashing, and Sherlock and John finally get a chance to get a good look at it.

 

            The creature is a tiny, cobalt blue thing with a humanoid upper torso but the lower body and legs of a large wasp of some sort. Its eyes are enormous, tilted, and glittering black, more like polished domes of obsidian than anything remotely eye-like. Mary is holding it by the bases of its insectlike wings, out of reach of its needle-sharp teeth and the wicked looking stinger tipping its abdomen.

 

            “It’s a faerie,” John says in disbelief, jumping back when the little creature waves its stinger threateningly. “An honest-to-God faerie.” He looks back at the empty clothes that had previously housed the enormous, burly, not-quite-a-human man.

 

            Mary nods. “Winter Court pixie. Low rank—he wouldn’t be compensating with that glamoured shape otherwise.”

 

            The pixie does not like this assessment. “Low rank? _Compensating!?_ ” It flails, trying and failing to bite or sting Mary. It tries casting a different spell and gets shaken again for its trouble. A puff of fine glitter douses its head when the spell fails; it flails some more. “I’m the ruddy Winter Lady’s right 'and man, you saggy molly! I ain’t got a reason to compensate!”

 

            Somehow, John doubts that’s the case. Mary’s snort confirms it. “Were you the Cold Knight, we would have been dead and frozen long before it ever came to this,” she deadpans. “Besides, I doubt you would retain your title after _two_ attempts to channel fire magic. You’re lucky the Winter Lady doesn’t kill you outright for even knowing that spell.”

 

            “Crusty bitch,” the pixie snaps, spitting. 

 

            Mary doesn’t even flinch. She wipes the gobbet of spittle with her free hand and flicks it away. “Sherlock, get me a jar.”

 

            Sherlock obeys. Part of him wants to avoid having their suspect partially dismembered (Lestrade will not be best pleased by that), but a bigger part of him truly is curious to see a belligerent pixie stuffed into a jar, especially after it called Mary such crude things. He finds a jam jar, but it’s grimy and mouldy. He wants to be able to see the pixie up close, so he tosses it aside.

 

            The pixie tries to cast yet another spell. John yelps, Mary snarls, and something impacts a metal bin lid with force. “You’re fucking _mental!_ ” the pixie blubbers after a long moment. “By Mab 'erself! You, the short one! Get 'er away from me, please! Where are you—'ey! 'Ey! Please don’t leave me!”

 

            John joins Sherlock in hunting through the skip. He’s singed and missing an eyebrow.

 

            Sherlock picks up the mouldy jam jar and hands it to John.


	2. Auspicious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, Mary, John, the nature of Santa Claus, good omens for the New Year, a blanket nest, and a winter windstorm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone. To those of you across the pond who'll be watching new Sherlock very, very soon: I am monumentally envious.

 

            “It makes no sense,” Sherlock complains. John can feel the vibrations from his agitated pacing through the thick layer of blankets between his back and the floor. “A fat man in a sleigh pulled by eight—”

 

            “Nine,” Mary corrects patiently. She’s a warm, soft weight stretched out atop John’s chest and belly; in the firelight, she’s all gold and onyx but for the rich green glint of her eyes.

 

            “—flight capable reindeer is ludicrous from the outset. For logic’s sake, consider it! This sleigh is meant to carry gifts for at least four hundred million children, yet it’s meant to be drawn by eight—”

 

            “ _Nine,_ ” Mary interjects again. Her blunt claws tickle John’s good shoulder as she flexes her paws.

 

            “— _flight capable reindeer_! Better yet, it’s meant to make this trip within the space of thirty-four hours, including time for the pilot to decelerate, locate the appropriate gift or gifts, disembark, achieve ingress to a house by way of chimney, leave the gift or gifts, egress by said chimney, board, and then accelerate away again!” With a final, dramatic flourish, Sherlock and his bedsheet flop to the floor next to Mary and John in a sulky heap. “Claptrap!”

 

            Mary’s sigh is loud and eloquent. “He could be moving at the speed of light.”

 

            “Impossible,” Sherlock ripostes instantly. “He has resting mass.”

 

            “Fine then, a significant percentage of the speed of light.”

 

            Sherlock flips part of his sheet over Mary and John. “Improbable unless he is an extraterrestrial with technology millions of years ahead of that of humanity and a ship with a) the capacity and b) the structural integrity to withstand the stresses of intense, near-constant acceleration and deceleration, never mind air resistance.”

 

            “He could be a Time Lord,” John proposes. He gently runs his fingers through Mary’s hair, down her sleekly powerful shoulders, and over the velvety, springy curves of her wings. She flexes them pleasedly, knowing full well how much he and Sherlock enjoy watching the way her feathers furl and unfurl like a Victorian lady’s fan (though John’s enjoyment thereof is likely of a very different nature than Sherlock’s). Seeing Sherlock watching from the other side of the pillow and blanket pile, John frees one arm and uses it to pull him under Mary’s wing, snugly tucking the detective against his side. “The sleigh could be a TARDIS.”

 

            Sherlock lets out a huff of half-hearted outrage that riffles the shirt over John’s chest. “You know full well that _that programme_ has little to no basis in science!” His feelings on this subject have been made abundantly clear as of John and Mary’s viewing of the 50 th anniversary and Christmas specials, yet his aversion to repeating himself never seems to apply to this particular rant. “No concept from that _nonsense_ is permissible as a valid argument!”

 

            Mary snorts. “Clarke’s Third Law: any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.” She relaxes one wing so it slides down over Sherlock like a barred, feathery blanket. “Making the sleigh a TARDIS would solve the problem of the time limit _and_ the logistical issues like cargo capacity and structural integrity. The reindeer could just be holograms. A flying sleigh would be jarring enough; reindeer at least give the illusion of some sort of understandable source of propulsion.”

 

            “Nonsense.” Sherlock harrumphs, hunkering down under Mary’s wing and into John’s side.

 

            Outside, the wind howls and rain lashes the windows. No other lights aside from the fire in the grate and the candle in the kitchen are visible; Baker Street has gone dark in the storm.

 

            “It could be magic of some sort,” John suggests after a moment. Mary had gifted Sherlock with a series of lessons on the basics of simple spellwork for Christmas, one of which had been constructing a basic speed charm. There’s no reason why a more advanced version of the same charm wouldn’t work, given the right circumstances. “Perhaps Santa is a team of fat old men rather than the one, and they use speed charms to pick up the pace a bit.”

 

            Mary laughs; Sherlock groans despairingly. “Santa Claus is _not real_ ,” he grits out, “and trying to apply logic to something so patently irrational is a waste of time!”

 

            “Fun is never a waste of time,” Mary counters, gently cuffing Sherlock with the wrist of her wing. “Besides, John has a point. Maybe there’s a Santa Consortium, and a Santa-per-capita ratio that has to be met, and Santa elections, or even races—literal races, made to see who’s the most efficient Santa out of the lot.”

 

            Sherlock makes a mournful noise into John’s shoulder and covers his ears.

 

            A particularly strong gust sets the windows rattling and whistling. “Wow,” John says after a moment. “Hard to believe this isn’t even the worst of it yet.” He watches the window frames with concern. “It’s raining stair-rods sideways and the power’s cut. Auspicious, this.”

 

            Mary sniffs dismissively, kissing his chin and then his lips. Sherlock watches interestedly as she and John share a long, warm moment indulging in each other’s lips. Eventually, they part and Mary answers. “A warm fire in the grate, a pile of duvets and pillows to hide under, and my two favourite ambulatory space heaters? That seems perfectly auspicious to me.” Turning to Sherlock, she smiles and gives him a peck on the forehead. “This could be a very interesting year, don’t you think?”

 

            “It’s very probable,” Sherlock murmurs, his hand sliding up to delicately feel along the border between smooth skin and sleek, spotted fur just under Mary’s jaw. She tips her head into his touch and purrs. “Being who we are, I doubt it could be otherwise.”

 

            “Good,” John hums. He shuts his eyes and basks in the warmth of his partners and the fire. “I don’t want it to be otherwise.”

 

            Judging by the uptick in Mary’s purring and Sherlock’s efforts to snuggle in closer, they agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for the Santa-as-Time-Lord idea goes to one of my fifth grade students. He simply could and would not be dissuaded from the notion, and I found myself agreeing with him. It really would solve a lot of the logistical issues.


	3. Stuff of Legend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha Hudson has seen just about everything. 
> 
> "Just about" being the operative phrase.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick little drabble. It occurred to me that Mrs Hudson would invariably learn about John, Sherlock and Mary at some point.
> 
> It's -25ºC here right now. That is far, far too cold.
> 
> Happy 160th, Sherlock Holmes!

            Martha Hudson has seen a great many things in her lifetime, some more fantastic than others.

 

            The crime and violence has never been terribly shocking. Martha follows the news; people have been killing themselves and one another in dreadful, creative ways for millennia, and getting all up in a lather over it won't do a damn thing to solve it. She distantly remembers the Blitz—remembers sounds like a hive of enormous bees overturned, rising shrieks raining from the sky, rolling wails, bursts of terrible thunder, the smell of smoke, dust, and exhaust. No, war and violence are not new to Martha Hudson in any way.

 

            She remembers listening Martin Luther King, Jr.’s speech on the radio and feeling her heart beat in her chest for the Americans like the wings of a bird taking flight. She remembers watching Sputnik race across the night sky and wondering what it all meant for mankind. She remembers the lean, early days of the eighties and the riots that flared up like wildfires across London. She has seen snow in Florida (it happened, once; just a dusting, back in the nineties, enough that Frank went straight out to play a round of golf in the stuff, the nutter). She remembers the advent of the Internet, Technicolour, the human genome, polio vaccines, the first Hubble images, the Moon landing, the fall of the Berlin Wall.

 

            She remembers when a young, strung-out man with wild curls and eyes like opal blades swept into her life shortly after Frank introduced the FBI informant to a twelve-gauge shotgun at point-blank range. She remembers that grey-eyed boy laying Frank’s life of crime open for all to see and then vanishing to parts unknown once the conviction was handed down. She remembers renting a flat to him and his friend. She remembers when the same mad, wonderful boy came back from the dead to appear at her doorstep.

 

            So, when Martha Hudson sees Sherlock Holmes leap from the fire escape just outside his window, _fold up_ into the shape of a huge raven, and wing away into the afternoon, she simply deposits the rubbish into one of the bins, goes inside, and pours herself a cuppa to think things over.

 

            Later, when pounding footsteps and laughter announce Sherlock, Mary, and John’s return, Martha puts together a nice pot of Earl Grey and a packet of chocolate Hobnobs (Sherlock’s favourite) and makes her way upstairs.

 

            “Cooee,” she announces herself, setting the tea service on the table next to John’s armchair. Sherlock sweeps over immediately, clearly intent on caffeine and sugar; he’s back in his human shape, but now that Martha looks a bit closer, she has the distinct feeling that there’s something a bit _more_ about him, something not quite tucked back under the mask. “Sherlock Holmes, you really must be more careful about leaving like that,” she scolds gently, knowing no better way to breach the topic. “Gave me a right fright, you did, and heavens knows what some passing fool might have done had they seen you.”

 

            Sherlock blinks. “Leaving how?” John and Mary both resume moving; they’d gone unnaturally still as soon as ‘seen you’ had left Martha’s lips. “I left by the front door.”

 

            Martha may be old and a bit dependent on soothers for a decent night’s sleep with her hip, but her mother and her mother before her had taken their steel-trap minds with them to the very last breath. Pulliam women succumb only to time and boredom, never dementia. “You left by the fire escape, Sherlock Holmes, and didn’t even bother to change until you’d already jumped from the rail like one of those ridiculous parkour lads on the YouTube.” She has no idea if she’s using the right terminology—because there is _obviously_ some sort of special, hip word for that folding-up bit—but damned if she’s not going to give it her level best. Sherlock always tells her that the unexpected reactions get the most information, anyway.

 

            Oh, and information she _gets_. Sherlock dips his head like a puppy awaiting a scolding and looks over at John, who has his arms folded and a distinct ‘not amused’ look on his face. “Sherlock,” John growls, “I _told_ you we couldn’t risk that sort of thing here; you _know_ the camera angles don’t hide the entire alley!”

 

            “I know the camera angles!” Sherlock protests. He pours a cup of tea and adds a splash of milk before handing it to John; it’s clearly intended as some sort of placatory gesture. “I _need_ it, John. You know that.”

 

            Mary helps herself to the tea and a Hobnob. She winks at Martha as Sherlock and John start arguing in frustrated (John) and petulant (Sherlock) tones. “I’ll wager you’ve more than a few questions,” she murmurs, leaning in conspiratorially. “Come to the kitchen and I’ll explain there. Those two might take a bit.”

 

            Nodding, Martha turns and makes her way to the kitchen. As Mary begins to explain, she can’t contain her smile.

 

            Edith Turner can prattle on about her married ones all she likes; _Martha’s_ boys are the stuff of myth and legend.

 

 


	4. A Six-pack of Trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Babysitting is hard enough when it's just you and a human child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was my birthday yesterday! I've been vacillating about posting this-- as much as I like kidfic, I never thought I'd find myself writing it (because God knows I can't do it with even a tenth as much aplomb as earlgreytea68's Nature and Nurture)-- but yesterday was my birthday and Infinitely Stranger just hit 190 kudos, so... I guess have some dragon whelps as a birthday gift from me to those of you who wanted more whelps. 
> 
> Thank you so, so much for every read, kudos, and comment. You guys bring smiles to my face every time I see them.

            It’s barely lunchtime and John’s already had the longest day of his life.

 

            Well, not quite _the_ longest, but perhaps the most boring day of his life. It’s been nothing but a steady stream of runny noses, diarrhoea, and deadly illnesses 'diagnosed' via Google, and he’s about ready to leap from the window in a bid for escape. Even the excitement of yesterday’s patient with a seven-millimetre kidney stone (a new surgery record, apparently) isn’t quite compensating for the mind-numbing tedium of informing people over and over that no, they are not dying and no, antibiotics do not work on viral illnesses. He’d give anything for a little bit of excitement or even a reason to leave work, but with Lestrade in Southern France to attend to a sick relative, Sally Donovan and DI Dimmock have not seen fit to summon Sherlock on any cases.

 

            It’s a measure of how truly bored he is that, when his phone rings and the screen lights up ‘Mycroft’, he almost literally pounces on it. “Yes, hello, Mycroft. What has Sherlock done this time?”

 

            Something lets out an almighty shriek on the other end of the phone. “Sherlock has nothing to do with this,” Mycroft replies, sounding a bit strained. “I require a favour.”

 

            John looks up at the ceiling of his office. He really should be much more careful about what he wishes for. “I suppose I could help,” he replies after a while. Maybe it won’t be quite so bad.

 

            There’s another squawk over the line. “I have been called to an emergency meeting,” Mycroft manages to grit out, “and Anthea cannot leave the office whilst I am absent. Our usual nanny is Gregory’s sister, and she is in Lestrade-et-Thouels as well.” More squawks, followed by a crash. “Damn it all! Euphrosyne, _restrain_ your brother!” He groans. “I am at my wit’s end, John, and I cannot bring them with me or send them to Gregory, but I trust no one else to mind them. If you could watch over them for three to four days, I will consider myself deeply indebted to you.”

 

            John doesn’t necessarily want to agree, but he’s never heard Mycroft sound quite so desperate before. He finds himself agreeing.

 

            “Very good,” Mycroft exhales. “I shall bring the children and enough supplies to last you three to four days; expect me in two ho— _Alexander! Get down from ther—_ ”

 

            The phone cuts out with a click.

 

            John sighs and gets up from his desk. He doesn’t want to use his remaining sick days, but it’s looking like they might be a necessity.

 

            ***

 

            “You’re lucky it’s half term this week,” Mary laughs as she helps John clean the flat. Sherlock is out somewhere, likely Barts; John vaguely recalls something this morning about extreme polydactyly, but he can’t be certain. He’s not going to like the fact that John and Mary have moved all of his papers and books into boxes and stacked them behind the couch, but they’ve been careful to keep things in the order they were in on the floor or furniture.

 

            “I am so sorry to ask this of you so suddenly,” John says again, because he really is, but he’s terrified of handling six actual children and one overgrown child by himself. “He called me just fifteen minutes ago.”

 

            Mary waves a hand in friendly dismissal. “Think nothing of it,” she replies with a wink. “I was getting bored, and I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t curious.” She peers into the refrigerator inquisitively, poking at containers and cellophane-wrapped bundles; she wrinkles her nose at something on the bottom shelf. “You may want to set a locking ward. I love beef heart, but I do _not_ love it when it is whole and half-dried. Dragon or otherwise, the children will likely feel the same way.”

 

            They end up etching locking charms into about three quarters of the storage space in the kitchen once John finishes consolidating plates, mugs, and silverware into two cabinets. Mary then helps him inspect every utensil, mug, and plate for hazards before thoroughly washing the lot.

 

            By the time Mycroft calls to tell them he’ll be arriving in five minutes, they’ve locked and warded the gun, the saber, the miniature crossbow, the blowgun, the bear trap, the cane-sword, the harpoon, around fifteen different knives, and the violin into the attic above John’s room, etched indestructibility wards into Sherlock’s curio cabinets after tucking away his various breakables, stitched tiny stainproofing charms into the armchairs, John’s pillow, and the sofa (a surgeon’s hands serve very well for such tasks, apparently), and anchored everything to the floor with the no-tip charm Mary uses in her classroom to keep bookshelves, tables, plants, paints, and glitter (especially glitter—she doubles up the no-tip charms on the glitter) upright and unspilt. They stand side by side in the middle of the sitting room, surveying their handiwork with satisfaction.

 

            “Sherlock’s going to have kittens,” Mary snickers, breaking the quiet moment.

 

            John groans. Today is going to be a rough day.

 

            ***

 

            Mycroft is wearing a four-in-hand.

 

            To anyone else, it would merely be a poor choice to go with a Savile Row three-piece suit.

 

            On the elder Holmes, it’s as close to a massive, flashing, neon sign reading ‘EXHASUTED’ in large, aggravated letters as any tell will get. “I will provide adequate compensation for your trouble,” Mycroft assures John, his usual supercilious drawl conspicuously absent. His expression is impassive but his hands are gentle as he coaxes his children through the door.

 

            Auburn-haired, wide-eyed, and barely taller than John’s knees, Aglaïa, Euphrosyne, Thalia, Charis, Constantine, and Alexander do not seem keen to leave the space immediately surrounding Mycroft’s feet. Though he knows their names, John has no idea which child is which; Mycroft has clearly used six copies of the same glamour to disguise the children long enough to get them to Baker Street without questions or mishaps. He hopes they’ll be easier to distinguish once they’re upstairs and the glamour can be removed.

 

            “Come,” Mycroft says, herding the children toward the stair. He hands John an overstuffed duffel as he passes. “You will be staying upstairs with John and your uncle Sherlock. John is a sphinx and your uncle is a shapechanger—you need not worry when your disguises fade.”

 

            Despite the six children clustered tightly around Mycroft’s feet, the elder Holmes manages to climb the stairs without tripping over any of them. John follows behind with the duffel, wondering if Mycroft’s house had a lot of stairs for them to practice. “When will the glamour wear off?” he asks, because he _is_ curious about what the children actually look like. Mycroft’s native shape is wriggly, serpentine, and an uncomfortable shade of mauve, and Greg’s natural form is regal, graceful, and shining silver—John reckons that the children have a fifty-fifty chance of being strikingly beautiful or very, very bizarre. “Mary’s upstairs; she can take it off for them if you'd like.”

 

            “It will be easier to identify them if you remove the foci early; I suppose I could do that before I left, if you would find it convenient.” Mycroft replies evenly, opening the door to 221B. He pauses in the doorway and looks around the flat, clearly a bit thrown by the lack of rubbish everywhere. “Sherlock is going to be livid,” he says, just a hint of a smile in his voice as he looks down at John with one raised eyebrow.

             

            “Sherlock can cope,” Mary responds. She uncurls from John’s armchair and stretches as she steps down, sandy wings half-unfurled and arched over her long limbs and lean, onyx-spotted flanks. “Hello, Mycroft. Hello, little ones.” She chuckles as she looks the kids over. “Your da just cast the same glamour six times, didn’t he? You look exactly alike.”

 

            “We had a hurry,” one of the disguised hatchlings says very seriously. The glamoured image’s mouth moves, but it isn’t synched to the hatchling’s speech; it’s a disconcerting effect. “I didn’t see it, but it was a very big one.”

           

            Mycroft sighs. “It is still a big one, Charis. Now that you are here with John and Mary, I must go. Please behave well for them.” He pats each of the children as he speaks. Yet again, his face betrays no emotion but the gentleness of his hands speaks volumes. With each pat, the image of an auburn-haired human child vanishes. “Good-bye, little ones. I will call tonight before you sleep.”

 

            Followed by a chorus of ‘Good bye, Pére’ and ‘We’ll be good, promise’, Mycroft takes his leave of 221B. When the outside door shuts, all six Holmes-Lestrades scramble to the windows to watch their father’s black saloon roll away down the street.            

 

            John and Mary both stare at the gaggle of dragon whelps crowding into the window. “My God,” Mary breathes. John just nods.

 

            The hatchlings are all about a metre and a half long from nose to tail-tip, with bright, huge eyes, stubby legs, and delicately webbed fingers and toes. Their wings are still small but they hold the promise of growth, much like the little nubs of horns and frill-spines atop their heads. Perhaps the most striking thing, however, is their scales—every one of them is covered in what appears to be droplets of transparent, coral pink glass. Sunlight winks and glitters over them, bouncing off of the silvery film that seems to coat their hides and refracting through the scales themselves; rosy flashes of light dance on the walls, floor, and ceiling around them. When one stretches her wings, the membrane is so thin and translucent that John can clearly see ruby lattices of capillaries and the ivory glow of bone.

 

            “Wow,” John breathes. ‘Striking’ is putting it a bit lightly.

 

            Almost as one, six sets of huge, dark eyes turn and focus on John and Mary. “When is lunch?” one of the hatchlings (the largest) asks.

 

            “Er, well... the fridge doesn’t have anything edible,” Mary replies, “but I suppose we could order takeaway?”

 

            It shouldn’t be possible for such large eyes to get any larger, but all six hatchlings are standing at _rigid_ attention at the mention of takeaway. “Could... we have _pizza_?” the largest hatchling asks, breathless. When Mary glances at the other hatchlings, they nod vigorously. One licks its chops with a long, pointed tongue.

 

            “Pizza?” Mary echoes.

 

            “With _stringy cheese,_ ” one of the smaller hatchlings exhales with a distinct tone of awe, “and _crust_ , and the _red sauce..._!” Five other heads bob as a susurrus of poorly restrained wiggles and anticipatory whines ripples through the little crowd.

 

            Mary looks at John.

 

            John looks at Mary.

 

            They don’t need to speak to know that they’re thinking the same thing— _the hatchlings have never had pizza._

 

            John sets his jaw and nods. “Right. I’ll get the phone.”

 

            ***

 

            “You smell like the spotted lady,” Thalia observes from over John’s shoulder. She looks around with interest as he carefully climbs back down the bookshelf. “Do you love her?”

 

            “I do,” John replies. This seems to please Thalia; she giggles and squeals and wriggles merrily. When he reaches the floor, he gently lets her down and then sighs over the shredded state of his shirt. The hatchlings have sharp claws and haven’t learned not to get them caught in clothing. He gives up clothes as a bad job for the time being and heads to the toilet to strip and change; the pizza isn’t due for another half hour or so, anyway, so taking his (vastly more comfortable) native shape isn’t going to cause any problems.

 

            Thalia and her sister Charis are right back underfoot as soon as he emerges from the loo. “You changed shapes, you changed shapes!” Charis singsongs, butting her head up under his left wing. Thalia somehow weaves her way between his front legs without getting tangled and adds a bright chirrup to her sister’s exclamation.

 

            “I did,” John replies levelly, cupping his wings so the sisters can roll and tussle along beneath them (they’ve been doing this to Mary as well; they seem to like being under things as much as they like being on top of them). “This is what I look like when I’m not... er, disguised as a human.”

 

            “You look different than the spotted lady,” Thalia remarks between playful snaps at her sister.

 

            John nods. “I look different because we’re not related.”

 

            “Oh. Do you smell the same because you are married?”

 

            John looks over at Mary. She’s lying in front of the fire like a miniature, winged version of the Great Sphinx; there’s a hatchling draped over her back, fast asleep, and another curled up in a sleepy little ball between her front legs. Under the shelter of her right wing, the biggest hatchling, Aglaïa, and one of the boys, Constantine, are poring over the _Eyewitness Guide to Time and Space_ John had gotten for Sherlock as a gag birthday gift. “We’re partners,” she says warmly, lifting her chin to nuzzle John’s cheek when he joins her.

 

            “Okay,” Thalia says, clambering over John’s shoulder as soon as he’s settled himself on the rug with Mary.

 

            Charis looks thoughtful (or, as thoughtful as a two-month-old dragon can look). “If you have an egg, could we be friends with it?”

 

            It takes John a little to parse that one; Mary’s giggling is what clues him in more than anything. “Er,” he croaks, “well, we’ve only known each other for six months, you see, and... I’m not sure that sphinxes have eggs?”

 

            Charis tips her little head until it’s practically upside-down in bafflement. “You don’t have _eggs!?_ How do you get _borned_ if you don’t have eggs?” She pauses for a moment, and then her head tips all the way around in the other direction. “Where do eggs come from? Pére never says, and Papa runs away.”

 

            Mary’s giggles turn into outright laughter.

 

            ***

 

            Sherlock freezes in the doorway to 221B and stares around the room in a mixture of horror and confusion.

 

            Everything has been _moved._ There are _bookshelves_ and _boxes_ and even though someone has done an admirable job of keeping the papers in the boxes in the order they had found them, everything is _in a different place_ and it is _disorienting and distressing_ when things are moved. Too off-balance to remember to shout for John or Mrs Hudson, Sherlock paces the room and attempts to divine the reason for the rearrangement. All he can find, however, are several tiny runes etched into the glass panels of his display cases, miniscule molecular models of sodium percarbonate stitched into every textile or upholstered item, and pictographs of mountains carved or scribbled onto the bottoms of every moveable item of furniture. John and Mary must be up to something, he decides, but what? His knowledge of runes is not strong enough to give the ones he’s found any meaning, so he decides to investigate the kitchen for more clues.

 

            Two large pizza boxes and three polystyrene cartons sit on the cleaned-off kitchen table; they are empty but for a single slice of arugula and mushroom and a breadstick in the bottommost box. He judges that the pizza is about seven hours old based on the congealing of the cheese and oil, an assessment that is corroborated by the extent of the grease stains in the boxes. As he steps around the table to get to the refrigerator, his shoe slides in something on the linoleum. Closer inspection reveals evidence of at least two slices of pizza being eaten off of the floor, as if by an animal. A pile of tatty cardboard—the shredded remains of two more large pizza boxes, Sherlock determines after a moment—sits forlornly beneath the table.

 

            Curious. John and Mary both prefer to eat from the table, regardless of form. Why would they rip pizza boxes to pieces and leave them on the floor? He can’t think of any particularly useful reasons for an experiment involving that sort of thing.

 

            Sherlock attempts to open the refrigerator. It does not open. The freezer is uncooperative, and most of the cabinets appear to be following suit. The ones that do open contain only dishware, mugs, and simple utensils.

 

            In a fit of pique—what else could this be but some sort of wretched prank?—Sherlock attempts to upend one of the chairs at the kitchen counter.

 

            He bangs his knuckles painfully. The chair doesn’t move at all.

 

            Brow furrowed, Sherlock tries pulling the chair away from the table. It does so. When he tries to tip it over, however, it’s as if it suddenly roots itself to the floor, immoveable as...

 

            “Stone,” Sherlock says to himself quietly, and sweeps back into the sitting room. Several more tests confirm his finding—everything with the mountain symbol on it seems to be incapable of being tipped or knocked over.

 

            This leads him to take a second look at the embroidered sodium percarbonate on all of the fabrics and upholstery in the flat.

 

            According to Mary’s explanation a few weeks ago, the focal components of a charm are like wires through which magical energy flows. The efficiency of the focus depends on two variables: the strength of the association between it and its purpose in the caster’s mind, and the strength of the association between it and its purpose in the minds of the general population. Mary had used the example of a dragon physicist with a fondness for classic cars whose (highly effective) swiftness charms were literally the letter C written using red automobile paint—C for the speed of light and red automobile paint to capitalise on pop culture’s ‘fast red car’ stereotype.

 

            Sodium percarbonate, in addition to being a useful source of anhydrous hydrogen peroxide when used with the right solvents, is an oxidising agent and one of the active ingredients in many popular stain removal products. Knowing this, it seems reasonable now to infer that the embroidered molecule is likely intended as an anti-stain charm.

 

            As Sherlock looks around the sitting room yet again, it occurs to him suddenly that all of his sharp, toxic, breakable, and otherwise dangerous or delicate possessions are either in the glass display cabinets or missing entirely. So, dangerous items removed or sealed, anti-tip charms in place on everything, all of the upholstery embroidered with stainproofing charms, enough pizza to feed a small arm...

 

            “ _Mycroft_ ,” Sherlock hisses under his breath. He digs out his phone and jams out a text, furious that his fat hen of a brother has the gall to assume that John is free for use as some sort of low-cost babysitter.

 

            _Leaving your progeny with John_

_so you won’t be distracted whilst_

_ruling the Western world! How_

_civic-minded of you! SH_

 

            He’s surprised when Mycroft returns his text almost immediately.

 

            _Powers that be brooked no_

_argument. I am in the Ukraine_

_for three to four days. Gregory_

_and sister with dying cousin in_

_France. I trust no one else. MH_

Before Sherlock can storm into his room in a huff or shout for tea, another text comes in.

 

            _John requested that I relay the_

_following: wake them and John_

_will strangle you with Mary’s_

_blessing. MH_

            Sherlock’s first impulse is to continue with his strop as planned—nothing staves off ennui like a good rant, after all—but a greater part of him knows very well that John must be quite serious if he had insisted that Mycroft pass along such a message. His next impulse is ‘experiment’, but none of his equipment is accessible. He considers reading, but he’s already gone through all of John’s medical journals and the latest issues of _Analyst_ and _Science and Justice_... lacking any better ideas, he collects his 1992 edition of _The Hive and the Honey Bee_ and pads down the hall to his room, intending to curl up in bed with a bit of light reading in the hopes that sleep might come.

 

            He nearly drops the book when he opens his bedroom door and discovers that his bed is already occupied.

 

            Lying along the headboard with Mary fast asleep against his side and tucked under one wing, John has one claw raised to his lips and his other paw resting on the open pages of a new issue of _BMJ_. The rest of the bed is taken up by a tangled, glittering pile of pink, pebbled glass, interspersed here and there with the odd webbed paw, stubby wing, or half-open muzzle. The pile emits a snuffle and part of it flops drowsily as a hatchling rearranges itself.

 

            “ _Why are you in my bed?_ ” Sherlock breathes insistently once he’s crouched at the bedside. He accepts a kiss on the cheek from John; it mollifies him somewhat, but he’s still not entirely sure why it has to be _his_ bed that has to be commandeered for babysitting purposes.

 

            “We tried mine, but they wouldn’t sleep without us in the bed too, and there wasn’t room for everyone.” John replies in a whisper.

 

            “The floor is fine with enough blankets,”

 

            John rolls his eyes. “One: guests do not sleep on floors just because you resent their father asking us for help. Two: Greg might refuse you cases just to punish me.”

 

            Sherlock has to concede that such a threat is an admissible defence against Sherlock’s pique, but it won’t stop him from planning vengeance for Mycroft’s imposition. Lifting John’s wing, he finds just enough space to lie with John pressed close against his back and Mary tucked snugly into the curve of his body. It is an excellent place for sulking, so he settles in to plot the best ways to wind up six wriggly children as much as possible before they return to their parents’ tender care.

  
            Mycroft will have to think very, very carefully before he imposes his familial responsibilities on John without warning again.

 


	5. It's a Family Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated first and foremost to my father, who supported me in all my endeavours, creative and scientific; who taught me the value of patience, justice, and critical thinking; and who gifted me with the opportunities to take any path in life I could dream up. It's been a year today since he passed on-- I love you, Dad, and I miss you.
> 
> Dedicated also to Grassangel, who gave me the bean sidhe prompt (as well as several others, which I fully intend to use) and to Lucryllyn, who left the 200th kudos on Infinitely Stranger.

            John takes off running as soon as the tense, urgent undercurrent in Sherlock’s voice cuts through the low-key bustle of the forensics crew processing the rest of the scene. When it becomes apparent that John is needed because the victim is clinging to life by the barest of margins, the crime scene erupts into barely-restrained chaos as officials scramble to summon an ambulance, find the first aid kit, get into John’s way in misguided efforts to help, and then scramble _out_ of his way when he barks at them sharply to _piss off and let him do his fucking job!_

 

            Standing off to the side, Mary spots Sally Donovan standing tight against one of the panda cars, arms crossed. The expression of aloof disdain on her face would be much more convincing if her hands were tucked into the crooks of her elbows rather than cupped around them. Mary makes her way over and stands just close enough to offer support. “Are you all right?”

 

            Sally’s jaw tightens. “Fine,” she grits out. It’s not anger or disdain—instead, she seems almost pained. “I’m fi—oh _no,_ no no no no, Syl, don’t do th—”

 

            There’s a shouted curse from John; Mary looks up and sees Anderson go flying as Sherlock shoves him away with a roar. John scrambles over the victim and jams one gloved finger into the man’s side; it doesn’t quite staunch the flow of blood. Anderson stares at the bloody shard of glass in his hand, as if he doesn’t quite understand its presence.

 

            “Fucking _idiot_ ,” Sally hisses. She flinches again, one hand going to her side. She closes her eyes as a low, keening noise begins to seep past her clenched teeth.

 

            Mary’s attention is split between John and Sherlock working on the victim and Sally Donovan, clutching her side (right where the victim’s wound is, in fact) and doing her damnedest to restrain what is _clearly_ a less-than-voluntary mourning wail. Instead of asking the obvious—no, Sally is not all right—Mary simply stands right next to her, letting the sergeant lean on her for support.

 

            The victim is dead within a minute. Greg staggers to his feet and nods to Mary; leaving Sally to her superior officer, Mary pushes past the rest of the forensics crew and helps John back to his feet. He leans on her heavily and buries his face in her neck, seeking comfort. No one interrupts Sherlock as he rounds on Anderson.

 

            ***

 

            Mary doesn’t see Sally again until they’re sitting in a little pub not far from the Yard, celebrating the apprehension of a serial killer responsible for, among other things, a brutal, unsolved triple homicide during Lestrade’s first year as DI that he’d spent night after night trying to crack.

 

            That Sally chooses to plunk down next to Mary at the bar is a bit surprising; she usually favours her with a slightly moderated version of the disdain she shows toward Sherlock. “Thanks,” she says gruffly, apropos of nothing.

 

            It takes Mary a bit before she realises that it’s a thank you for the incident a few weeks ago; smiling, she shrugs. “Not a problem.”

 

            Cautiously, Sally glances around. “It’s... I’m fit for duty. I’d like it if you’d keep it quiet,” she says. “It’s... a family thing, I suppose.”

 

            Mary glances around the bar as well. Tucked back into one of the booths, Sherlock’s verdigris irises glint with unnatural light as he observes the Yard’s merrymaking with a scientist’s eye. John isn’t sitting with him, but he’s still managed to position himself between Sherlock and the rest of the Yarders without being obvious about it. His eyes glint, too, but it’s the catlike, iridescent glimmer of a _tapetum lucidum_ rather than the eerie, inner almost-light that Sherlock’s seem to exude. On the other end of the bar, Greg Lestrade laughs and jokes with the two PCs that had helped make the arrest. Without knowing what to look for, Mary would easily miss the deliberate, controlled delicacy with which he handles his pint and pats the PCs chummily.

 

            “You’re in good company,” Mary replies after a long moment. “I won’t tell anyone.”

 

            Sally looks a bit mystified, as if she’s not sure if she should be offended or complimented, but she also looks relieved. “Thank you,” she sighs. After a moment and a swig of her drink, she turns and looks at Mary appraisingly. “There must be a reason you stay with them.”

 

            This again. “There is,” Mary agrees, nodding gamely, “just like there must be a reason you and Sherlock seem to hate each other so much.” She shrugs. “Does it matter?”

 

            “Does to me,” Sally replies. “Watson, I get. Soldier, doctor, handsome—he’s together, he is. Holmes, though?” She shakes her head. “He’s a bastard.” She seems to remember to whom she’s speaking and grimaces. “Don’t get me wrong. He’s terrifyingly smart, but he’s a prick. Insults everyone just because they’re not as clever as he is. Misogynistic, too.” She sips at her ale again. “My half-brother’s autistic and one of my cousins has antisocial personality disorder. I’ve heard Holmes claim to be either one of those, depending on the situation, and I know for a fact that he’s neither. No, he’s not typical, but he’s neurotypical, and I’m sick of the way he uses real medical conditions to excuse himself from putting a bit of fucking effort into being a decent human being.” She sighs. “I don’t hate him for who he is, really. I hate him for who he chooses to be. He could be a good man—one of the best men—if he’d stop being so ashamed of feeling things and hiding behind stigmas that other people don’t get to escape.”

 

            Mary glances up again, just briefly. John nods. Sherlock’s eyes are closed.

 

            ***

 

            Mary hears Greg and Sally on the steps (neither of them avoid the creaky steps, Greg ignores the handrail, Sally’s kitten heels click loudly) and sighs; John grumbles and shifts to his human shape, throwing on a pair of denims and a black-and-white jumper that he keeps under the coffee table for these sorts of situations. Deciding that perhaps it’d be best to wait to let Sally in on her native form, Mary reactivates her human glamour and sits ‘properly’ on the couch instead of sprawling over the back. Hot and sticky though the weather may be, Mary would rather deal with a moment of discomfort than a lot of shouting and questioning from the lady sergeant.

 

            Greg at least has the good manners to look sheepish as he steps into the flat. “Hello,” he says, nodding when he sees John in the kitchen with the kettle. “Sherlock in?”

 

            “Should be back shortly,” John replies. “What’s he not telling you now?”

 

            Sally crosses her arms and frowns. “We’ve got a dead mum and a missing kid. Freak—” She cuts herself off when John and Mary both scowl. “ _Holmes_ says he knows where the kid is but isn’t telling us. Says it’s obvious and that we shouldn’t need his help.”

 

            John and Mary both sigh.

 

            Sherlock chooses that moment to tumble through one of the open sitting room windows in his raven shape, croaking and shrieking as he tangles with a small, singularly ugly, bat-winged golem. He’s already changing shapes, feathers and a jabbing bill giving way to scales, claws, and a sinuous neck; with a sharp snap, he jackknifes out from under the golem and knocks it toward Greg, who grabs it with both hands and pins its limbs to its sides.

 

            “ _What the fuck_ ,” Sally gasps, staring openmouthed at the lumpy, grey, vaguely toddler-shaped thing in her boss’ grip.

 

            “Type?” John demands from the kitchen.

 

            “Clay,” Greg says, hastening to the sink. Sally goes to follow, but John gets there first with the kettle. Greg bites out the words to a flash-heating spell; as soon as the kettle starts whistling and rumbling, John dumps the boiling contents over the golem in Greg’s hands.

 

            Sally watches in total shock as the golem sags and melts into an equally ugly blob of clay under the scalding deluge. She stares at the steaming lump, then stares at her boss’ unscathed hands, then stares at John as he uses a pair of spoons to root through the clay and then extricate the tiny, ceramic tablet that formed the heart of the construct. One good whack with the back of a spoon breaks it. “What. The hell. Was that,” Sally asks flatly, looking up at John, Greg, and Mary expectantly.

 

            “A golem,” Sherlock replies as he nimbly scales Mary’s leg and back to perch on her shoulder. He’s still in the housecat-sized dragon shape; even though he’s taken it more than a few times, Mary is never quite going to get accustomed to hearing his rich baritone rumble out of such a little body. “An animated, relatively autonomous construct crafted from clay, stone, or some other inanimate material.” He drapes his tail around Mary’s neck like a glittering onyx necklace. “Incidentally, this was also the so-called ‘child’ missing from the scene of the crime. Georgia Humboldt was researching fully autonomous golems to supplement her work in developing ‘intelligent’ computer programs; she glamoured them to resemble human children so her neighbours wouldn't pry." He regards the pieces of the little tablet with interest. "Clever, really. Much of the ‘programming’ in the golem cores is similar to that used in creating artificial intelligences.”

 

            Mary can’t tell if Sally is more dumbfounded by Sherlock-the-house-dragon, by Sherlock’s explanation, or by the nod and sigh from Greg. The sergeant waves her hands quellingly, then folds them as she glares at John, Mary, and Greg in turn. She jabs a finger at Sherlock. “Wait. One—what is that and why does it sound like the Fr—Holmes? Two, a golem? _Seriously?_ Three,” she says, turning to face down Greg, “you actually _believe_ all that rubbish?”

 

            Greg sighs, refills the kettle, heats it again, and hands it to John. “We’re going to need tea.”

 

            Once Sally is seated at the table, Sherlock hops down from Mary’s shoulder, grabbing his bedsheet from under the coffee table and tugging it around himself as he shifts back to his human shape. Mary perches atop Sherlock’s armchair and dismisses her glamour. “Like I said last month, Sally,” Mary laughs, “when it comes to family things, you’re in good company.”

 

            Sally’s mouth is open, just a bit.

 

            After a long, long moment, she lets out a small, incredulous sigh. “Jesus. You really weren’t joking.” She drops a hand over her eyes and takes a deep, slow breath. Greg, Mary, and John wait patiently, giving her the time she seems to need; Sherlock just ignores her and fiddles with his mobile.

 

            Eventually, Sally lifts her hand and lets it drop to her lap. “When I was seven, Mum was sectioned. She’d started wailing in Angel Station, just before a man nearby died of a massive heart attack; when she tried to explain that it was something that just _happened_ , that she couldn’t control it, that her mother and grandmother had had it even worse, they locked her away.” She shakes her head sadly. “It didn’t happen to me until later, when I was taking my A-levels. Kid at a party died of an overdose in the loo; I hid in the coat closet with my hands over my mouth until I was able to stop the noise. It just... comes up. It’s not as loud as Mum’s, but it’s there.”

 

            “ _Bean sidhe_ ,” Mary says, quietly. For John and Sherlock’s benefit, she clarifies: “Banshee.”

 

            “Yep,” Sally agrees. “Went and researched it after it happened a second time—I knew there had to be a reason for it. I’d eliminated every other possibility by that point, so there wasn’t much left to do but accept it.”

 

            John hands her a mug of tea; she accepts it gratefully. Once Sherlock, Mary, and Greg have their own mugs, John places his on the table next to his armchair and changes back to his native form, peeling out of his jumper and denims even as he changes shapes.

 

            Sally watches him change with an expression somewhere between surprise and ‘why am I even surprised’. Turning to Greg, Sally offers the DI a crooked, apologetic smile. “Bet you’re feeling a little surrounded, boss,” she chuckles.

 

            “Er.” Greg only looks a little bit uncomfortable, but Sherlock’s snort and John’s poorly-stifled giggle are enough to clue Sally in to the fact that no, it’s not embarrassment over being the only human in the room.

 

            Sally looks at John, Mary, and Sherlock, then back at Greg.

 

            “ _Really_?” she breathes after a moment. She throws her hands up in defeat. “Christ. Well, we’ve a part-banshee, two sphinxes, and some kind of shapeshifting lunatic; we’ve already defied probability as it is, so I reckon things can only get weirder from here.” She crosses her arms. “What are you, then, a ruddy dragon or something?”

 

            Greg chokes on his tea. John and Sherlock both burst into laughter.


	6. Ride a White Horse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grassangel mentioned kelpies. This is for you, dear.
> 
> Long time, no post-- after Series Three, it was difficult to sort out switching gears between Infinitely Stranger's Mary and the Mary of the series. This is short, but hopefully it's entertaining! I fully intend to revisit this universe more in the near future. Fun is needed after HLV.
> 
> Thank you so much for every read, kudos, and comment. You're all fantastic!

            Of course Sherlock is comfortable on horses.

 

            Why wouldn’t he be? Posh upbringing, posh university—of course he’s as at home on horseback as he is swanning about a crime scene.

 

            John tugs on the reins as his pony tries yet again to shy away from Sherlock’s massive white vanner.

 

            Of course the horse would be just as ridiculous and dramatic as the man himself. The bloody thing looks like it’s just stepped out of some horse-girl fantasy painting, all flowing white mane and luxuriant feathering and rippling musculature beneath a snowy coat so pale it almost seems blue. He’s half expecting Sherlock to establish some sort of eldritch bond with the damn thing on account of his fey blood; talking with animals was just what faeries did, right?

 

            Mary’s little dun mare plods along next to John’s horse, chewing ruminatively at a tussock of grass snatched in passing. Mary looks at home on horseback, too, though not quite so comfortable as Sherlock. “This place is beautiful,” she sighs, her chin stretching up toward the sandstone cliffs on either side of the valley. John can tell that she’d love nothing more than to take off and fly the pass instead of riding through it; he's feeling exactly the same urge. “It’s too bad there are so many tourists.”

 

            Sherlock’s horse tries to nip at John’s pony again. “Sherlock, make him stop.”

 

            “If I could, I would,” Sherlock replies evenly. The horse takes another potshot at John’s pony and completely ignores the way Sherlock tugs on the reins. “Be thankful that he’s following the group.”

 

            They’re already a good distance behind the rear of the little caravan as it is; Sherlock’s horse has stubbornly refused any and all efforts to increase his pace.

 

            Mary chuckles. “At least these guys don’t know our scent. The only riding animals I could get close to back in Africa were the donkeys and the camels. The rest went running as soon as they could smell me.” She pauses and sniffs at the air. “Speaking of scents, we’re coming up on one of the lakes.”

 

            “Excellent,” Sherlock says. “That should be Auger Lake.” This close to their goal, Sherlock stands in the stirrups, visibly buzzing with energy. It’s been a long week of investigation, but with the dump site finally located and a timetable established, they’re ready to set up an ambush and take down the killer as he makes the dump.

 

            It seems that Sherlock’s horse shares his enthusiasm. Nostrils flaring, it whickers and jigs merrily, jostling Sherlock on its back. John snickers at the detective's annoyed expression.

 

            Still jigging, Sherlock’s horse turns, meets John’s eyes directly, and snickers right back.

 

            “Oh _no,_ ” Mary gasps, just as the huge, white horse rears, cackles, and plunges off the path at a full gallop, howling with laughter as it goes.

 

            ***

 

            “I l-loathe this place,” Sherlock growls through chattering teeth. He pulls the blankets tighter around himself and glowers out at the lake from the back of the pony trap. John’s pretty sure he catches sight of a pair of pricked, blue-white ears disappearing beneath the surface of the lake when he turns to look. “I hate it and I w-want to g-go back to England right this m-minute.”

 

            John rolls his eyes and drapes his coat over Sherlock’s shoulders as well, bowing to place a kiss on the detective’s forehead. “You’ll survive. It’s mid-August. The lake wasn’t _that_ cold.” John is a doctor, after all. He knows these things, and he knows Sherlock is just cold and wet, not hypothermic.

 

            Sherlock gives John a wounded look and sulks the entire way out to the other end of the pass. The tourists with their group look on in mixed amusement (the Americans, probably glad that, for once, it wasn’t one of theirs to be the problem) and confusion (the Chinese couple and the Russian woman, who were just as startled by Sherlock’s plunge as the detective himself). They’re fortunate, to be honest—all Mary had had to say was ‘water horse’ and the tour guide’s expression had gone from anger to exasperated resignation. John really did not want to have to run interference between a furious, Irish tour guide and a furious, soaking-wet consulting detective.

 

            Once they get to the cottage on the other end of the pass and the tourists are shuffled off to their next destination in the area, the tour guide emerges with two more blankets to wrap around Sherlock’s shoulders. “Can’t apologise enough, Mr Holmes. Cheeky bastard’s been nothing but trouble for years, and he’s a wily one—has a few more shapes than the regular sort.”

 

            Sherlock retreats under his blankets. John and Mary try to look accepting of the guide’s apology. “We understand,” John says after an awkward moment. “Really.”

 

            “We’ve a few more shapes than the usual, ourselves.” Mary gives a winning smile and pats Sherlock’s damp head. She looks like she intends to continue speaking, but something makes her stop. She lifts her chin again, this time with alert interest. “Do you hear that?”

 

            The tour guide shakes his head and Sherlock has that ‘wants to hear it but can’t’ look on his face, but John nods. “Hoofbeats.”

 

            It’s not long before the sound of unshod hooves clattering on tarmac becomes clearly audible. Sherlock makes an angry sound and hunkers down in his blankets. “The _thing,_ ” he hisses.

 

            Sure enough, the kelpie rounds the bend in the trail just a moment later.

 

            “Is that...?” John asks, looking back at Mary.

 

            Mary nods, dumbstruck.

 

            The kelpie has the serial killer they’d come to apprehend by the seat of his pants.

 

           

**Author's Note:**

> Please do let me know if there's anything you're curious about in this AU! Prompts are more than welcome, especially as I'm coming up on a winter holiday and will need something to keep me busy.
> 
> Finally, this is a Mary-positive AU. If you're really incensed about her existence, I don't recommend continuing to read-- this is a John/Demi!Sherlock/Mary OT3 universe and I'm really enjoying this little sandbox. There's a ton of fantastic Johnlock fic out there that's magnitudes better than this scribble, anyway-- go be happy there instead of unhappy here. Try 1electricpirate's magical AU, More Things Than Are Dreamt Of. It's spectacular.


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